


Yuletide Eve

by Lyracst



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, Obviously Cahir can dance, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Yuletide, Yuletide 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyracst/pseuds/Lyracst
Summary: NOTE: Includes spoilers from the novels and games.Dedicated to Dordean, who is so awesome, so kind, and an amazing writer! <3  Thank you for all of your works, and thank you especially for sharing the Cahir/Ciri love!AU where Cahir survives the assault on Stygga Castle.  Geralt and Cahir travel to Ard Skellige to celebrate Yuletide.  Takes place after The Witcher 3.  Cahir’s POV.  I don't usually do holiday stuff or even overly fluffy stuff, but dammit, Cori and Cahir deserve it.  Mostly anxious Cahir and good old-fashioned fluff in Part One; explicit content begins in Part Two.
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 22
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/gifts).



“Yen’s gonna kill me,” the witcher grumbled. Cahir was not sure whether the remark was directed towards him, towards Roach, or was just a general gripe directed towards no one in particular. With Geralt, he had long since learned, it could be impossible to tell and ultimately mattered little. The witcher was merely expressing himself and likely did not care to hear any other opinions.

Cahir, however, had little to complain about, especially now that they had set foot on solid land. He had little experience sailing, and the wintry seas had not been particularly mild. There had also been more than one encounter with sirens, and though they had never been in any mortal danger thanks to the witcher’s undeniable talents, attempting to battle while balancing on a slick, rolling deck had been quite the challenge. The Vicovarian was grateful for the sure-footed mare beneath him, and neither the blisteringly cold winds nor the narrow, rocky, treacherous path they rode could diminish his spirits. The moody sea churned and roared far below, dashing furiously against the foot of the cliffs, but Cahir hardly noticed it for the cacophony of thoughts that had been racing through his head since they had landed on the shores of Ard Skellig.

“Nervous?” 

The witcher had noticed his distracted silence and was half-turned in his saddle to glance at him. Cahir studied him for a moment, wondering what teasing and verbal mockery he would surely endure if he told the truth, then nodded in defeat. 

“You should be,” Geralt turned back towards the road with a shake of his head.

“Do you think she’ll remember me?”

“Ciri?” The witcher called over the piercing howl of the wind. “No idea. You’d be smarter to worry if Yen’ll recognize you. She may be too polite to liquify you in front of esteemed guests, but she can still make your stay here hell.”

“I wish no one harm,” Cahir insisted, his words nearly torn from his lips.

Geralt turned again, his slitted, yellow eyes glowing eerily in the moonlight. He observed Cahir for a long moment, wordlessly, then turned forward once more in his saddle.

“Almost to Kaer Trolde - shouldn’t be much longer.”

Cahir shivered and drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. The path grew steeper still, but through the trees, he could make out a great, stony countenance looming above them, the warm glow of firelight illuminating a myriad of windows. Every now and again when the wind died down, he could hear a jumble of voices, laughing and shouting, some raised in song to a faint but cheery tune. Kaer Trolde. Cahir had never been to Ard Skellige, never been to Skellige at all, but he hard heard stories. It felt surreal to be here now and even more surreal to be here for this purpose. His stomach suddenly twisted with nervousness and doubt. What if she did remember him, but remembered him as he had been when they first met? Remembered him as the armored ghoul, surrounded by fire, riding her down as she fled the ruins of Cintra to capture her and carry her away from her home and her family? That fateful day felt like a lifetime ago. Cahir cursed softly under his breath. There was no purpose in worrying now. There was no turning back, no delaying the meeting he had wished for for so many years any longer. 

The winding path turned once more, and suddenly the grand fortress sat before them, its towering gates open to welcome guests into the elaborate - and empty - courtyard. The night was far too cold for outdoor celebration for all save a few brave souls, but the music and chatter coming from inside confirmed that the festivities were well underway. As they approached, a man draped in heavy furs rushed forward from the servant’s quarters and motioned to take their horses. Geralt dismounted in one agile motion. Cahir dismounted as well, though much less gracefully, his legs stiff from the ride and the cold. 

“Take care of my horse,” Geralt instructed gruffly, and the servant nodded, leading the mares away. 

Geralt was already nearly at the door, but Cahir remained rooted to where he was, doubt weighing heavily on him. The witcher turned, his expression twisting with mild annoyance. 

“Cahir, it’s cold, I’m tired, and it’s beginning to snow. Let’s go.”

How could he explain his hesitation, describe what being here tonight meant to him? He opened his mouth to respond, stopped, tried again and still could not find the words. The witcher’s posture sagged in defeat, and he strode forward, quickly closing the distance between them. He placed his hands upon Cahir’s shoulders firmly, looking him firmly in the eye.

“I know what you did at Cintra, and I know what you did at Stygga Castle. You made mistakes, bad ones, but you did it because you were ordered to do it, and when the time came, you laid your life down to save her. You’re a good man, Cahir. For a Nilfgaardian. Come on.”

The witcher clasped one of his shoulders like a vice and pulled him forward. Before Cahir had the chance to dig his heels into the stone beneath them, they stood before Kaer Trolde’s massive oak doors, Geralt was striking his fist sharply against them, and the doors were rumbling to life, opening inward to reveal the lively scene inside. 

The grand hall before them was ablaze with motion. Torches lined the walls, plates of steaming food covered the countless long tables. Servants rushed here and there, tending to guests, refilling cups with wine and ale. A troupe of musicians played a merry tune to the delight of the guests who had already had a good amount to drink. Dancers twisted and glided and skipped across the stone floors, spinning and laughing and bumping into other guests. The majority of them appeared to be Islanders dressed in heavy furs and boots, but there were people of all sorts in the hall, and Cahir recognized none of them. 

“Yule!” A group of somewhat inebriated guests surged forward around them and attempted to press mugs of ale into their hands. Geralt accepted, but Cahir shook his head with a polite smile. The group took no offense - one of its members gladly drank for him.

He followed Geralt closely as they pressed forward through the crowd, his nervousness growing with each face he did not know. Hundreds of eyes found him and followed him - with curiosity or with suspicion? The cacophony of voices around them overwhelmed, and Cahir did his best to focus only on the witcher, though he could feel his face growing warm with self-consciousness. Suddenly, out of the din, one voice shrill with joy carried above all others.

“Geralt!”

She appeared from seemingly nowhere and launched herself into the witcher’s waiting arms. Her pale hair was tied up, but tendrils of it had fallen loose and curled about her face in beautiful chaos. Her brilliant, emerald eyes were lined with kohl, making them appear even larger than they already were, and they glittered with warmth and affection. Her lean, powerful shoulders were bare, accentuated marvelously by the cut of her deep green velvet dress. He had never seen her in a dress. His throat tightened, his breath caught in his throat, a sensation that only worsened as Ciri relinquished the fierce embrace she had caught Geralt in and opened her eyes to discover him standing just a few feet away.

She froze, the elation fleeing her face and leaving something unreadable in its place. Was it caution? Anger? Fear? No, Cahir realized, never fear, not from her. Ciri turned to him, her eyes flitting across his face, studying his worn, unimpressive travel clothes. She was measuring him, observing and calculating things that were impossible to discern. Cahir stood before her, his arms at his side, striving to hold her gaze, to remain as open as he could, for it was her right to be wary, her right to be angry. It was her right to judge him any way she saw fit, and he would gladly accept whatever sentence she issued him. The person before him was not the young girl he had been sent to abduct. She was not the wild, fearless bandit he had seen his dreams. She was not the legendary elven descendant, the Child of the Elder Blood, vanquisher of the White Frost, the Lady of Time and Space. She was all of things and none of them. She was Ciri, fully and wholly and truly herself.

“You,” she whispered. 

Her sharp features were proud, her posture strong and certain. There was recognition in her eyes, and Cahir felt dread sweep through him at this realization. She knew who he was. He had to explain. He had to apologize, to tell her why he had come.

“Ciri, I--”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders suddenly, her body folding against his own. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, and he felt the press of her cheek against his chest. Cahir’s heart swelled in his chest. A dizziness swept over him, perhaps due to the heat of the fires or the crowd of bodies filling the hall, or perhaps due to the surreal nature of the moment. He tentatively slipped his arms around her waist, his hands cautiously resting upon her back. The embrace was polite, impersonal - a shadow of what he truly felt but far more than he deserved. He swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to clear the lump in his throat, to fight back the stinging in his eyes that threatened to make his feelings very apparently known.

“Guess she remembers you after all,” a heavy hand clapped him on the back, effectively bringing him back to the reality of the moment. The music returned, as did the clamor of voices and clinking plates and creaking furniture. The room filled with life, and it was no longer her and him, standing with one another, together at last. 

Ciri pulled away from him and cast a surprisingly sheepish glance at the witcher, along with a sharp elbow that he easily side-stepped. 

“You’re rusty.”

“You’re impossible,” she chuckled, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad you both made it. I was worried the snow would start sooner and that the road to Kaer Trolde would become impossible.”

“Worried about our White Wolf?” A melodic voice sharp with wit announced the arrival of a raven-haired woman, adorned in a simple but elegant dress of black and white. Her violet eyes were as biting as her voice, and they locked onto him fearlessly, absorbing every detail with critical attention. “Even in his advancing age, it would seem he remains indestructible, as frequently as he enjoys testing that theory.” Her painted lips twisted in a cool smile that revealed little. “You are Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Of Vicovaro.”

Cahir cleared his throat and bowed. There was not a doubt in his mind who stood before him, though they had never formally been introduced.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she proffered a gloved hand with exaggerated delicacy. He took it and brought her knuckles to his lips, keenly aware of how closely she studied him. “Geralt has told me a great deal about you, about your travels together. You were at Stygga Castle,” she shuddered ever so slightly as she spoke the name, returning her hand to her side. “A place we should all hope to forget, I imagine.”

She stared at him cooly, her expression curious. After a moment, the sorceress moved away to embrace the witcher, her lips locking with his suddenly and fiercely. When they parted, her violet eyes blazed with unmistakable eager mischief. 

“We meet again, White Wolf.”

“Yen-”

Yennefer pressed a lacy finger to the witcher’s lips and cast Ciri and Cahir an impatient smile. 

“It’s been...some time since I’ve had the chance to speak with the good witcher. Might we continue our conversation later? Perhaps Ciri can introduce you to some of our friends, help you tour the festivities. I’m certain there are many here who are eager to meet you.” Yennefer turned a pointed gaze on Ciri. “Call me should you need me?” Though posed as a question, there was no trace of uncertainty in her command. 

“I’ll do that,” Ciri chuckled, “though you needn’t worry. Go, have fun.”

The sorceress studied her closely for a moment, then nodded, content with whatever she had found. Clasping Geralt’s hand firmly in her own, she offered Cahir a curt nod and led the witcher - who suddenly looked uncharacteristically and almost disturbingly jovial - away. They disappeared into the crowd. 

Ciri chuckled apologetically and cleared her throat, “They’re always like that.” Ciri glanced about the bustling hall, her eyes alighting upon a couple of chairs at a smaller table, pushed to the edge of the room. “Come, you must be starving.”

Before he could react, her arm slipped around his, her fingers resting on his forearm. She guided him forward with eager strides, and Cahir felt as though he was sinking ever deeper into an impossible dream. Ciri slipped into one of the vacant chairs at the small table and gestured for him to take the other. 

“Join me.”

“You wish me to?” He stood where he was, his brows knitting in bewilderment. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she responded simply, sincerely. She pressed one foot firmly into the leg of the chair opposite her, scooting it out so that he might take it. 

He obeyed. Within moments, a servant swept forward with a large platter of various cooked meats, fish, cheese, and vegetables. The servant procured two goblets and placed them on the table, filling them to the brim with a dark wine, then retreated. Cahir watched it all in a daze, a look that must have been openly apparent to Ciri, for when he met her gaze she was grinning broadly. 

“You’re from a noble family, aren’t you? I would think you would be used to such extravagant events.”

“I...haven’t been home in many years,” Cahir admitted, reaching for a sliver of fish and instead settling on his goblet of wine. He drank gratefully. “I doubt my family even knows I am alive.”

“You should visit them,” her voice was soft, thoughtful.

“Someday, perhaps.” He took another drink, studying the intricate grain of the wooden table.

“You’re nervous.”

Cahir met her gaze and was stunned by it, just as he was each time she looked at him. His breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his heart hammering within his chest. Gods it beat so wildly, it seemed the entire hall should be able to hear it.

“I am.”

“Why?”

He grimaced, his fingers tightening around the goblet in his hand. He took another drink, draining what was left, and pushed the empty glass away.

“Fear,” he started bluntly, for what else could he do? “I am afraid, Ciri, afraid of what you must think of me. I’ve dreamt of this meeting for,” he closed his eyes, attempting to count the years, “for longer than I can remember. Dreamt of what I would tell you, what I would say. But now that I am here, there are no words I can think of that seem good enough. I feel foolish and ashamed.”

He looked away from her, staring down again at the table. His cheeks warmed with more than the effect of the wine. Idiot. Fool. Even now, you cannot tell her how you feel, and you shouldn’t. You never should. You should keep it within you, take it to your grave - it is your burden, not hers. You’ve done enough to her.

Her fingers pressed against his cheek, her touch warm and firm, guiding him to look at her.

“Whatever you want to say, the words will come in time. For now, know that I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I didn’t want to be.”

She withdrew her hand with a warm smile, one he tried to mimic. Though her kindness only sharpened the pangs of guilt he felt when he looked at her, she deserved a worthy companion. Someone who would make her laugh, give her cause to enjoy the evening, not a morose fool. If she chose to spend some of her evening with him, then he resolved to be that for her. It was the least he could do. A passing servant paused to refill his glass, and Ciri swept the jug of wine from his hands with a charming smile. The man looked as though he was about to protest, thought better of it, then bowed and moved away with a grimace. She finished refilling his glass for him with a wink.

“Thought we might need it - more than some of these sorry drunks, anyway. Looks like they’ve had enough.”

Cahir accepted the drink and gazed about the hall. Indeed, the celebration had grown rowdier since they had arrived, and there were many more dancers now. 

“You have a lot of friends.”

Ciri laughed, a wondrous, enchanting sound. 

“I don’t know if I would go that far, though I do know most of the people here. Perhaps you remember - my grandmother, Calanthe, forged close ties between Skellige and Cintra. I spent a lot of my early childhood on Ard Skellige itself, much of it right here in Kaer Trolde. She’s queen, now, but Cerys an Craite and I knew each other when we were still toddling around, playing in the mud and ruining our gowns. No doubt you’ll meet her at some point tonight. Surprised she hasn’t found you out already - no one’s a stranger to Cerys.”

Ciri took a sip of her wine and turned her goblet slowly in her hand, her eyes wandering pensively over the room. Somewhere on the dance floor sounded a large crash, cursing, and the sudden, violent smacking of fists on flesh. Moments later, a couple of Islanders emerged from the crowd, bruised and bleeding and laughing, their momentary squabble forgotten as they sought out another tankard of ale. Yet more people rose from their seats to take the dance floor, and Cahir could not miss the slow, creeping smile that graced her lips. Anticipating what would come next, he took another long drink of wine, draining his glass.

“That’s the spirit,” she chuckled and stood up, extending her hand to him. “Dance with me!”

She expected him to say no, he knew, and her brows arched in surprise when he accepted her hand without argument and stood with her, tottering only a little as the effect of the alcohol hit him fully. 

“I don’t know any Skellige dances,” he confessed, his accent far more noticeable, another side-effect of the wine.

Ciri laughed, and led him forward into the throng of dancers, finding a tight spot of their own. 

“Nor do I, really. I’m not sure even they do, and if so, they forgot them several drinks ago.” She turned to face him, her emerald eyes aglow with excitement. “You can teach me a Vicovarian dance instead!”

“Ciri, I-,” his voice faltered with hesitation, but Cahir recalled the promise he had silently made not long ago - the promise to give her the evening she desired which, bafflingly enough, seemed to entail spending time with him. He slipped one of his arms around her waist, carefully drawing her closer. He took her other hand in his and began to lead her in slow circle punctuated by smaller steps inward and outward. She followed him closely, stepping closer still, and placed her free hand on his shoulder. 

“You can dance,” she proclaimed, her lips parting in a brilliant smile that made his heart skip and his head swim.

“Wine helps,” he admitted, spinning her outward in a circle, then drawing her back into his arms. 

The music continued, and they danced on, spinning and turning and laughing as the tempo of the song increased. Though they were surrounded on all sides, Cahir was aware only of her. He hung on her every move, her every smile, each wondrous laugh. When she wished to lead, he followed, and when she began to grow tired, he offered his arms for her to lean on. He could have stayed with her on the dance floor all night, and the hours would have passed in an instant. Eventually, the musicians themselves grew weary, and they announced a break in their performance to rest and eat. Those still left on the dance floor groaned with displeasure, but soon enough returned to their tables to eat and drink as well, and amiable chatter and boisterous laughter filled the hall once again.

Cahir looked to Ciri. Breathless and beaming with exhilaration, Ciri took his hand and led him through the crowded room. He glanced about the room, certain that they would settle at one of the tables nearby.

“Should we mingle with the other guests?”

“Later,” she laughed, her brilliant eyes alight with some hidden knowledge, a secret she refused to share. She tugged pointedly at his hand. “Come with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Cahir obeyed dutifully and followed her, for how could he do anything else? To his surprise, she led him out of the great hall and into the night, which had grown much colder. The cold hit him the moment they stepped outside, and Cahir looked up. The sky was heavy with thick clouds, and snow drifted down in large, lazy flakes.   
  
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, turning his gaze out over the endless ocean.   
  
“Isn’t it? Come.”   
  
They continued, weaving their way through the empty courtyard towards another building of stone, this one smaller than the first, but tall. Ciri led him inside, glancing furtively around as she shouldered the heavy wooden door open. The sounds of the festivities were faint now, barely audible. Inside, the tower was silent.   
  
“Where are we?” He muttered, the cold having significantly cleared his head of the effects of the wine.   
  
“Shh,” she laughed softly and pressed her finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down.”   
  
She gestured for him to follow, and they continued on. They made their way down a dark hall to a winding flight of stone stairs. They ascended together, slowly, taking care of their footing in the dimness. Up they continued, up to the very top of the tower. At last, they reached a solitary landing that led to a simple wooden door. Cahir glanced at her skeptically, but Ciri only urged him forward, pressing the palm of her free hand against the wood. She pushed the door open, revealing a small, mostly bare room - it was a storage room, most likely, though it appeared that little had been kept here for quite some time. A few stray barrels sat against one wall, a desolate broom leaned against another. The wall directly across from the door, however, held a large, thinly-paned window that stretched nearly from wall to wall and revealed an impressive swath of dark, snowy sky. Below, Cahir could see the dancing lights of Kaer Trolde, and beyond, the infinite stretching of the turbulent sea.   
  
“This was my favorite place to go when I would visit Ard Skellig. I couldn’t sleep many nights, and so I would come here. I’d watch the stars move across the sky, stay here all through the night and watch the sun rise, there,” Ciri pointed to the east, her eyes glinting wistfully. “Those were long nights, often full of nightmares, but I’ll never forget the beauty I saw here.”   
  
Cahir stepped further into the room, turning slowly to examine the small space. Ciri leaned in the doorway, a soft smile touching her eyes.   
  
“Wait here a moment,” she disappeared before he could protest.   
  
Turning towards the window, Cahir took a seat in the middle of the room, drawing his knees in towards his chest. The stone floor was cold and hard, the room dark and lonely, but he felt calm, peaceful. Footsteps sounded gently behind him, and he started slightly, afraid that they had been caught after all, but he was greeted by an increasingly familiar smile.   
  
“Brought us these,” Ciri draped a thick, woolen blanket about his shoulders, a gift he accepted gratefully. A similar blanket was already wrapped around her. She quietly shut the door and joined him, sitting down in the center of the room. “And this.” She placed a small, flickering candle on floor - the flame was dim, but it was enough for him to see her by.   
  
They sat in silence together for a long while, both content to look out at the night before them, at the snow that now fell heavily, obscuring their view of the ocean, both lost amongst their own respective thoughts. The dizziness of the wine was completely gone now, and Cahir was left with a striking clarity. As dreamlike as this evening had been, it was real, _she_ was real - not a dream, not a vision, she was Ciri, and she was sitting beside him. He had never imagined such a thing could ever come to be. Cahir knew then what he needed to say, as they sat together in the darkness.   
  
“Ciri?”   
  
She tilted her head, a silent signal of her attention, her eyes never leaving the night sky.   
  
“So much of my life,” he hesitated, clearing his throat lightly, “so much of my life has been about you. I was a fool in the past. I-,” he shook his head and swallowed hard, unable to continue. In the darkness, he felt her hand press gently against his, the tips of her fingers running over his skin. Cahir turned his hand so that his palm faced up. Her fingers instantly laced with his. Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, he pressed on. “I thought what I was doing was right, believed in it so strongly. I was a fool. I was selfish, and I was wrong. I apologize, though that can never be enough.”   
  
He turned to look at her and found that she was watching him, her gleaming emerald eyes unblinking. He ran the pad of his thumb along her palm.   
  
“You spared my life when you had every reason to kill me. It was an action I could never forget. The moment played through head again and again for years, just as it does now. You were just a child, yet you saw me. Despite everything, you saw me clearly enough to let me live. I knew then how wrong I had been. When Geralt found me, I knew my only purpose was to help him find you. That was my destiny, mine and the others’. Helping Geralt, helping you, was the only way I could atone for what I had done. I only wish I could have been there for you for the rest.”   
  
Her hand tightened around his, and he could not help but smile as he remembered.   
  
“I met up with Geralt by coincidence while he was on a contract near Novigrad. I asked about you, and he told me of everything you had done. About the Wild Hunt, the White Frost. That you risked your life and saved us all,” Cahir shook his head and chuckled softly. “I wasn’t surprised at all to hear it. You are and always have been...truly remarkable.”   
  
He reached out slowly to brush a lock of hair away from her face. His hand trembled, but he did not care. He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, his heart racing urgently in his chest as he found the words he had kept for her for so long.   
  
“Ciri,” he spoke her name softly, reverently, “I expect nothing from you and deserve less. I regret so many things, but if I never had the courage to tell you, I would regret that most of all. I love you.”   
  
Cahir exhaled slowly, relieved to have told her at last and terrified of what she must think of him. He turned his gaze towards the window, but her fingers took his chin and firmly guided him back towards her. They locked eyes, and what he found in her was not anger or disgust or rage or revulsion - all of which he had imagined his confession might be met with - but something else, something warm, something vulnerable. She moved closer to him, her lips within inches of his own. His breath caught in his throat.   
  
“Ciri-”   
  
She kissed him, slowly and softly, her fingers curling into his loose, shaggy hair. Frozen with surprise, his thoughts began to race with doubts and worry, but her kiss deepened, her lips parted, and he felt his uncertainty dissolving with each passing moment.   
  
“Ciri-,” he tried one last time to voice his fear, but her name turned from a question to a plea as she shifted her weight, slipping one of her legs over his body to straddle him. “ _Gods_ …”   
  
“Lie back,” she whispered, breaking their kiss just long enough to instruct him and to adamantly press her fingers into his chest.   
  
He did so, shrugging the woolen blanket from his shoulders and slowly lowering himself to his elbows as she kissed him again, harder, her fingers tracing lines upwards to his shoulders. She pushed him all the way to the ground, lowering herself so that she was pressed against him. Her tongue sought his, and she hummed with delight as he at last dared to wrap his arms around her. Her fingers sought the clasp to his cloak and undid it swiftly. She moved methodically to the buttons of his tunic in quick succession. Victorious, she pushed it open, laying his chest bare and lifting herself to look at him, her eyes gleaming with delighted mischief. But the look faded suddenly, morphing into one of sadness. Ciri touched his chest, her fingers trailing gently down to the long, jagged scars that stretched across his torso from collarbone to navel.   
  
“For a long time, I thought you died that day in Stygga Castle,” she whispered, her voice shakier than he had ever heard. “I dreamt of that awful moment again and again. But you’re here, now, with me.”   
  
“I am,” he assured her, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “I am with you.”   
  
She returned to him, kissing him all the harder, her hands urgently tugging his tunic off of his shoulders. He sat up slightly to help her, the two of them working together until he was free. She tossed the garment aside with a smug smile and began to unfasten the clasps running down the chest of her dress.   
  
Cahir swallowed hard as he watched her. He had often dreamt of her, but he had never dared to dream of _them_ , had never guessed that she could ever want him in any way, let alone this one. Ciri stood, slipping her torso free, then letting the gown fall down along her body, over her hips, and onto the floor. For a moment, she stood over him imperiously, her chest bare and her strong legs flexed, a thin undergarment and her boots the only remaining pieces of clothing left on her body.   
  
“A little help?” She raised her brow pointedly and grinned.   
  
His face flushed like that of a schoolboy, and his fingers were slow and clumsy, but Cahir did his best to quickly unbuckle first one of her boots, then the other. She stepped out of them and swept her dress aside with a delicate kick before kneeling over him once more.   
  
“Thank you,” she murmured and pressed herself to him, the warmth between her legs apparent against his groin.   
  
Cahir groaned helplessly, a sound she stifled by kissing him harder, her palms pressing his shoulders firmly back down against the ground. Her hands found his and guided them to her hips. Her lips moved from his to his jaw to his ear to his neck, and she ground herself against him in the same moment that she pressed her teeth into his skin. He inhaled sharply, intoxicated by the rush of pleasure mixed with just a hint of pain, and bucked his hips up against hers. Her hand trailed down his chest, lingering for a moment at the edge of his breeches, then settled between his legs. Her lips, still pressed against his, curved into a pleased smile. She stroked him slowly through the fabric of his breeches, which had grown unimaginably tight.   
  
“Gods,” he slurred deliriously, shamelessly grinding himself into her touch, “Ciri… _”_   
  
“I like when you say my name like that,” she grinned and gripped him harder. “Say it again.”   
  
Cahir groaned, his hips flexing involuntarily at her touch. His head was spinning, his mind racing with all the ways he wished to please her. “ _Ciri,”_ he begged, his hands sliding up along her bare waist and gently pressing into the soft skin of her breasts. His thumbs circled her nipples, coaxing them into hard points and drawing a soft sigh of desire from her throat. She reached down for the clasp of his breeches, but he seized her wrists before she could fulfill her mission. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he quickly turned, laying her gently on her back with him kneeling above her. Her brows knitted in a grimace, and her lips parted in protest, but the words dissolved into a hungry moan as he pressed his mouth to the warmth between her legs, his tongue caressing the soft fabric of her undergarments.   
  
His thumbs slipped underneath the fabric that straddled her muscled hips, and he coaxed her last remaining piece of clothing down her thighs. Ciri lifted her hips in eager assistance, impatiently kicking her undergarment off as soon as he had worked them down to her ankles. He returned to his place between her legs, drawn in by her thighs, which she wrapped hungrily about his neck. He worked his tongue against her steadily, pressing hard at first, then more softly. His tongue circled her, coaxed her, faithfully following the pattern that made her arch and moan most vividly.   
  
“Fuck,” her fingers curled into his hair, raked deliciously along his scalp.   
  
He was surprised, having never heard her curse before, but felt a twinge of pride to be the cause of it. He kissed her harder, licked her faster, and dared to gently slip his finger inside of her. She rewarded him with a sharp moan of delight, her thighs squeezing him close.   
  
“Cahir,” she breathed, writhing in his grasp. Her fingers gripped his arms, urging him upwards. “Cahir, fuck me.”   
  
“No,” he growled against her, “not yet.”   
  
He needed to please her, needed to give her everything he possibly could. No doubt she had another protest ready, but she never had the chance to voice it. He slipped another finger inside of her, curling them upwards together and pressing in as he continued his work with his tongue. Ciri cried out, her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders, and Cahir groaned, his own arousal reaching new impossible heights with each noise, each gasp, each cry of hers. He could feel the tension in her body growing. He held her hips and stayed with her, carefully following her every move with his tongue and fingers. Her cries and moans were heightening. Her grip on him was tightening. He could feel her all around him, and soon she was all that he could recognize, and Cahir was grateful. He dared to glance up at her, and he felt himself pulse longingly at the sight. Her beautiful eyes were heavily lidded, her lips parted with desperate pleasure. Her cheeks and neck were warm with her impending satisfaction. As he watched, she fell silent, her eyes closing, her brow knitting with concentration. Her legs gripped him mercilessly, her hips spasmed, and Ciri cried out with unbridled release.   
  
He stayed exactly where he was as she came undone, his fingers stroking her gently, enjoying each wave of pleasure until at last she fell still. Her legs relaxed, freeing him. At last, he rejoined her and fell onto his back at her side.   
  
“That was-,” her chest heaved. She turned her head to look at him with pleasantly dazed eyes. “You’re quite good at that.”   
  
He smiled softly at the compliment, his hand seeking hers. Her body tensed as he took her hand as if taken aback by the gesture, but after a moment, she relaxed and laced her fingers with his. The candle, he noticed, had diminished to a tiny, sputtering flame. Cahir closed his eyes, certain that he could and would absolutely die happy, were he to die in this moment. He thought of her, how she had looked just moments before, and willed the vision to be etched into his memory forever.   
  
“You are wonderful, Ciri,” he murmured into the darkness of their hideaway.   
  
“As are you,” she returned gently, “but I’d like to remind you that we’re not done just yet.”   
  
Ciri guided their joined hands to his groin and pressed her palm to his persistent hardness. Her fingers ran over him, slowly, coaxingly. Cahir shuddered with undeniable excitement.   
  
“Are..,” his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat softly, “are you sure?”   
  
“Yes. I asked you to fuck me, after all,” she leaned closer to him, her lips brushing his ear. “And I intend to get what I want.”   
  
Her fingers undid his breeches in an instant, and he hissed with relief as the tightness abated. Her eyes locked with his as she pulled them from him, dragging them along his legs until he lay naked before her. She surveyed him, her fingers running up along his thighs, circling his hips, caressing his stomach. With each motion of her hands she got closer to touching him, but never did so. Cahir jerked his hips eagerly, pleadingly, but this only served to bring a wicked smile to her lips and eyes. She straddled him, taking care not to touch him or let him touch her. She leaned forward, so slowly, tendrils of her hair spilling into his face. Her lips brushed against his in a most sparing kiss. _She’s toying with me_ , he realized, and his cheeks grew warm at the realization that he thoroughly enjoyed it.   
  
“Ciri,” he pleaded with her, not for the first time this night.   
  
“Hm?” She responded coyly, pretending not to notice how he tried in vain to lift his hips to hers. She pressed him down with her knee. “What is it?”   
  
“Please,” he begged in a voice he hardly recognized as his own, so ragged it was with desire.   
  
“Oh,” she glanced down at him, casually noting his eager arousal. Her brow raised as if the notion suddenly dawned on her. “Do you want me?” Her eyes raised to lock with his. They, too, were filled with raw hunger - not desperate, not pleading like his - but pure and intense and certain. “Do you want me, Cahir?”   
  
“Yes,” he gasped, lifting his hands to grasp her hips.   
  
Ciri caught his wrists and pinned them to the ground, lowering herself so that her torso was parallel with his. She lowered her hips to his, running herself along his length with a painful, slow deliberateness. Cahir groaned, bucking to meet her, revelling in her warmth and desperate for more.   
  
“What did you say?” She demanded, her own voice rough as she struggled to remain in control. He wanted - _needed -_ to watch her let it go.   
  
“ _Yes,_ ” he gazed into her emerald eyes and let her see it all, the depth of which he meant it and felt it, in this moment and in every moment since their paths had crossed so long ago, “Yes, I want you.”   
  
She guided him into her with a gasp, gently lowering herself onto him until they fit together completely. She released his wrists and instead gripped his shoulders, using him to balance as she began to thrust against him. She moved slowly but deliberately and angled herself just the way she pleased. He could only run his hands over her body - the curve of her hips, her taut waist, her breasts - and admire her, content to let her take as she wished. She moved faster, straightening her back and releasing his shoulders, using her legs to ride him. He thrust with her, meeting her hips with his, urging her onward. He slipped one hand between her legs and pressed his thumb to her sensitive crest, watching her face as he began to stroke her in time with their movements. She gasped, her pace momentarily faltering at the sudden, heightened pleasure, then quickly resumed, chasing the mounting tension each thrust encouraged.   
  
Her eyes closed, and Cahir watched the focus dance across her wondrous features. He gripped her hips with both hands and met each of her thrusts more solidly. Her ragged breathing melted into gasping moans, then into desperate cries. Her eyes fluttered open, and she seized his shoulders suddenly, twisting them both so that he knelt above her. She looked to him, and Cahir knew that it was her turn to beg, but he did not dream of making her do so. He positioned himself and thrust into her, gently guiding her legs to rest against his upper arms. Her back arched with pleasure, and she cried out, her head falling back and exposure the powerful curve of her shoulders and neck. He watched her, mesmerized, as he began to thrust harder, faster, reaching the pace that seemed to suit her best.   
  
“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes closing as she relinquished control to him completely, “yes, _gods_ ! Cahir--”   
  
Soon, no words came, only earnest moans of pleasure punctuated by the sting of her nails running over his back. Then even those became intermittent, and her face tensed with concentration. He continued urgently, unwaveringly, his heart racing with joy as she fell into her release with a final, shuddering cry. He rode the waves of her ecstasy with her, completely absorbed by the warm pulsing of her body, by her parted lips and her quickened pulse. He thrust into her once more and let go, groaning and shuddering softly as he sank into his own pleasure. Warm arms pulled him to her, and through the fog that clouded his vision, he could see her looking at him, her eyes gentle, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.   
  
Their bodies parted, just enough for him to lay beside her. She drew herself close to him instantly, resting her head against his chest and working one of the blankets over them both. She twined her legs with his. Her skin was warm and damp with sweat. He ran his fingers along her arm, hardly daring to move for fear that she might decide that their time together was concluded. His fears proved to be unfounded, however, for she stayed curled against him, her hand on his chest, until they both drifted into a comfortable sleep, both forgetting where they were or why, both simply content to be together.   
  


* * *

  
The faint, grey light of early dawn woke him. Cahir sat up to find himself alone in a small, unfamiliar room looking out over a gloomy sea and snow-white landscape. The candle in the corner had long since died. One blanket covered the ground beneath him, the other was draped haphazardly across his legs. He looked about blearily and saw no sign of her.   
  
But it hadn’t been a dream - surely not.   
  
He retrieved his clothing from the corners of the room and dressed, a growing sense of urgency and unease knotting his stomach. It would have been impossible for him to imagine the night’s events. But what if she had awoken and remembered their night together with regret? What if she remembered who he was, _what_ he was, and fled? Cahir descended the long flight of stairs through the tower and exited the small building hastily, unsure and uncaring of who saw him. The courtyard was piled with fresh snow, and a few slow, lazy flakes still fell. He had to see her, to know that she was alright, whatever her feelings about the time they had spent together.   
  
Cahir burst into the great hall and immediately felt embarrassed, for the scene before him was surprisingly civil and quiet, and those within turned to regard his loud entrance with dismay.   
  
“Close the bloody door if you’re coming in,” snapped a particularly pale Islander, his eyes squinted against the sunlight.   
  
“Cahir!” A cheerful voice, one that he distinctly recognized, called to him, much to the grumbling dismay of many seated nearby. His worry instantly dissolved. Ciri glanced about and made a face, tactfully lowering her voice. “Come, join us, we’re just having breakfast.”   
  
She was seated across from Geralt and Yennefer. Her deep green gown had been replaced by a simple, cream-colored tunic and brown leather breeches. Her pale hair, however, was loose and fell about her shoulders in wonderfully chaotic waves. She gestured towards the vacant seat next to her. Cahir’s gaze flicked first to Geralt, who was studying him curiously, and then to Yennefer, who was pretending not to notice him but watched him closely each time he looked away. He stepped forward, politely making his way between the tightly-placed tables, and sat beside her. Ciri greeted him with a nod and a warm smile.   
  
“Sleep well?” She grinned.   
  
“Ah,” he was painfully aware of the color rising to his cheeks at her question, “y-yes, I did, thank you. And you?”   
  
“Yes, very well, thank you for asking,” her grin only grew, and she resumed tending to her breakfast with a profound smugness.   
  
Yennefer’s gaze flicked from Ciri to him, then back. Cahir expected fearsome admonishment at best, total and violent liquidation at worst - neither came. Instead, Yennefer waited until she caught Ciri’s eye and offered her a grin and a wink.   
  
“You know, Geralt was sharing a most wonderful idea with me earlier this morning,” she purred, delicately chasing a piece of fruit with a fork.   
  
Geralt grumbled something unintelligible, and Yennefer prompted him with a sharp nudge of her elbow. He glanced at her balefully, but when she continued to stare pointedly at him, he at last turned his gaze to Ciri.   
  
“We were wondering,” Geralt muttered, “if the two of you would like to come visit us in Toussaint.”   
  
“We’re heading back this morning,” Yennefer continued for him, running a pleased hand along his forearm. “Via portal. Which explains his abysmal grumpiness. The snow has made travel out of Kaer Trolde by foot or horse impossible, and it’s not likely to melt for some time, at least a month or two, I would guess.”   
  
“Thank you for the offer,” Ciri smiled, “but I was thinking...that perhaps we would stay here on Skellige for a while. We didn’t get to meet everyone last night, and there’s a lot of Skellige that neither of us have seen. That is, if Cahir agrees.” She cast him an uncertain look, suddenly aware that he might not be as keen on the idea as she apparently was.   
  
He reached for her hand under the table, gently brushing her soft skin with his fingers: an invitation. She took his hand in hers immediately. His eyes met hers - her immeasurably green, wild, wonderful eyes - and Cahir could not help the smile that crossed his face.   
  
“I would love nothing more.”   
  
The air was crisp and cold as they departed the great hall, striding through the courtyard to wish Yennefer and Geralt farewell. Some of the celebrants has regained a bit of energy and were bustling about, preparing a great bonfire to be shared by all who had awoken. Cahir hung back as Ciri wished the sorceress and the witcher goodbye. Both offered her their love, and both offered her some wisdom meant only for her ears. When they finished, Yennefer offered Cahir a nod and a warm smile, which he returned. Geralt strode forward and clapped him on the shoulder, his fingers digging in perhaps a little harder than intended, or perhaps not.   
  
“Take care,” he instructed Cahir pointedly, and released him.   
  
The pair departed swiftly, undoubtedly eager to trade the bone-chilling frost of Skellige for the warm, rich sun of Touissant. When they were alone, Ciri turned on her heel to face him, a playful eagerness dancing in her eyes.   
  
“You’ve never been to Skellige before, isn’t that right?”   
  
“It is,” he nodded. The snow around them, the mighty fortress set against the backdrop of the mountains, the cliffs leading out over the sea - the place where they stood together was magical, but Cahir found it was her he could not look away from.   
  
She took his hand and smiled. “Good. Come. I have so much to show you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Tipsy Cahir's pronounced Vicovarian accent is my favorite thing.


End file.
